Page 6 of Joey

“God, no,” I say, shivering at the thought.

“You can always use my place. In fact, you could stay over?”

“I can’t tonight. I watch Gabriella on Saturdays.”

She huffs. “So, have a week off. She’s not your kid, not your responsibility.”

I actually love taking care of my niece on Saturday mornings, and I was the one who suggested the arrangement. She’s five months old and I adore the beautiful little smooch. Plus, it allows Dante and Kat to sleep in and spend some time together, and that always puts my brother in a great mood. Which is a win for me because it makes him so much easier to manipulate. “It keeps Dante off my back,” I say, if only to avoid any more accusations that I’m boring. “And if we’re going to that new club tomorrow night, I need to keep him sweet.”

“Fine,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “If we can’t get you some good dick tonight, we’ll definitely get you some tomorrow.”

“You’re obsessed with dick.”

“No.” She gets off the bed and puts an arm around my shoulder, leaning down and checking her reflection in the mirror. “I’m worried about my best friend still being a virgin at the age of twenty-two.”

“It’s not that unusual,” I say.

“It is, Joey, and if you don’t pop that cherry soon, guys are going to think you’re a freak.”

I stare at my own reflection. I’m not a freak, am I? As much as I hate to admit it, Monique is right about one thing. I need to have sex with someone soon, preferably before I spend the family fortune on batteries. I’m pretty sure I could keep Energizer in business all on my own.

“Which hotties will be accompanying us tonight? Is Max tagging along?” she asks, seductively chewing on her lip. I wish I knew how she does that—she can switch from looking sweet and innocent to looking like a goddamn porn star in less than a second.

“Henry and Ash will be with us. No Max,” I say, trying to keep my disappointment out of my voice. I can’t go anywhere without armed guards—it’s one of the conditions my brothers attached when they conceded to allowing me more freedom.

“Ash is hot though,” she says with a pop of one perfect eyebrow.

I look at her like she’s lost her mind. “He’s like forty or something.”

“Hmm. Imagine all that experience.”

Ash has worked for my brothers for as long as I can remember. With his icy blue eyes and blond buzzcut, I can see why she’d be attracted to him, but he isn’t my type. I wrinkle my nose and she rolls her eyes. “Of course, he’s notMaximo.” She rolls his name on her tongue, dramatically clutching at her chest.

“Oh, stop.” I stand up and smooth my hands over my minidress. “Do I look okay?”

She tilts her head to one side and appraises me. Monique’s leather body con dress is way more revealing than my long-sleeved one. She looks hot, but then she always does, with her huge boobs, huge lips—both of which I happen to know are gifts from the local plastic surgeon rather than anything her momma gave her—and long blond hair. She could roll out of bed in a pair of pajamas with stale morning breath and still pull any guy she wanted.

She flutters her eyelashes. “I think Max would approve.”

I give her a playful shove. “Will you stop going on about Max.”

“But you are so hot for him, girl. You practically drool when you talk to him.”

“I do not,” I insist, grabbing my heels and slipping them on. “He’s like a third big brother. It could never happen.”

“Whatever you say.” The smirk she gives me makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Max would be just Monique’s type. I mean, who wouldn’t be into him? Tall, dark, stacked. Muscles and tattoos for days and more than a hint of danger—he’s a freaking walking wet dream. And even if he isn’t her type, she’d fuck him just to get one up on me.Note to self—remind the great Max DiMarco that your friends are off-limits.

ChapterFour

MAX

My phone buzzes in my hand and Dmitri Varkov’s name flashes on the screen. I’ve been waiting for his call. I tap the screen to answer, looking at the Chicago skyline through my apartment window. “Tell me where we’re at.”

“He’s gone underground. Still not prepared to go down quietly,” he replies.

“Well, we never expected him to,” I remind him. Dominik Pushkin was the head of the Russian Bratva for over twenty years. I doubt he ever expected his leadership to be challenged, particularly because he has two capable sons, and especially not by Dmitri Varkov.

“I know that, but I didn’t anticipate him putting up the fight he has. I’ve lost a dozen good men already.”